


Indiscretion #243

by autoschediastic



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-21
Updated: 2011-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-14 23:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy's life philosophy is pretty damn simple. He goes with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indiscretion #243

Quarter to eleven on a Tuesday night, Tommy's not expecting anybody to come knocking on his hotel room door. Even less expected is Adam on the other side of it, two sweating bottles of beer caught by the necks in one hand and a white take-out box in the other. Tommy blinks blearily up at him. This could be the remnants of a dream. A really awesome dream.

"One of these days, you're gonna go blind," Adam says happily, his gaze on the porn paused on Tommy's laptop.

With what felt like months between one precious hotel night and the next, and despite the pang that nailed Tommy as the troupe headed out for a day on the town without him, he'd needed the time alone. And he's not just talking about an uncensored jerk-off session, either. Tommy's never been the most social guy. A night out is great, but a night in is just as good. Sometimes better. The television doesn't have any expectations for him to live up to.

Adam jiggles the white box like biscuits for a wary puppy. "I got you hot wings."

"I fucking love you," Tommy mumbles, shuffling back to give Adam space to swoop inside.

Adam wrinkles his nose at the porn before decisively snapping the lid shut. "We've got to do something about your taste in men." He kicks back on the bed, pillows mounded up against the headboard, and pats the covers. "Come eat this crap. You gotta hear about the hell Sasha gave Taylor today."

Both beers turn out to be for Tommy. Adam chatters on and on while Tommy contentedly munches his way through the wings. By one o'clock, Tommy is flaked out with his head in Adam's lap, Adam's fingers combing through his hair, and a mild buzz that isn't from the alcohol warming his blood. Adam is so better company than late-night infomercials.

*

Tommy's kicked back on the venue's kitschy velour sofa, Cobain wailing in one ear and Longineu yammering on in the other, when Adam strolls in. Tommy swings up to his feet and into Adam's path, cutting both Adam's wide smile and a happy, "Hey, baby," short with his mouth. It's supposed to be one of those quick hello kisses, loud and smacking. Tommy ends up sneaking a little lick in there anyway.

The thing about adding a little extra zing to the situation, though, is that Adam always figures why go for a little when you could go for a lot, so the next twenty-five seconds of Tommy's life are spent sucking the minty burn of a Tic-tac off Adam's tongue. Whatever. There are way worse ways to kill time.

"Anytime you're ready," Monte says, voice flatter than Tommy's ass.

"Just saying hi," Adam says, a hand skimming down Tommy's arm as he turns to go hash out Monte's newest stroke of musical-director genius. Tommy flops back down, fishing his iPod out from a crack in the cushions and watches them talk, Monte calm and mellow, Adam bright and smiling, gesturing, throwing his head back and laughing at Monte's sly wink.

"You are so over your head," Longineu says, big shit eating grin plastered on his face. "In, down, gone."

Tommy kicks one of Longineu's booted feet off the table. "Whatever."

It's a good twenty minutes before they're done, Adam's phone buzzing insistently in his pocket for the last five; he's running late for something or other again. He detours to the couch before he leaves, slinging a one-armed hug around Tommy's neck from behind, and doesn't let go until Tommy says, laughing, "Yeah, yeah, I know you want it. Save it for the show, babyboy."

"Gonna hold you to that," Adam says, a quick peck on the mouth and then he's breezing out.

Tommy flips Longineu off before he starts running his stupid mouth again.

*

"It's not something I really worry about," Adam says into the phone days later, his voice echoing weirdly up through his chest. Tommy shifts lower, resettling closer to the softness of Adam's belly. The hotel room's warm, warmer than Adam usually likes, and it's weighing Tommy down, making his eyes heavy. He'd have fallen asleep a half hour ago except Adam wouldn't let him, prodding him in the side to keep him awake when his half of the conversation dissolved into random grunts. It's not his fault Adam's more comfortable to flake out on than this hotel's stupid cardboard-stuffed mattress.

Payback's pretty fucking sweet, though, and Adam's a ticklish motherfucker. A few fingers ghosting lightly above his kidneys gets a violent twitch and a scowl promising certain death, even while his voice stays light, friendly. Adam listens attentively as the interviewer rambles on loud enough that Tommy can hear the tinny echo of the guy's voice, and flicks his fingers all diva-like at Tommy's hand. Tommy doesn't bother to hide a grin and nuzzles Adam's belly, bares his teeth with his mouth pressed against it, threatening.

"Sorry," Adam says, grabbing up a rough handful of Tommy's hair. "Say that again?"

Tommy lets loose with a ragged moan, rolling his eyes back theatrically before going limp. And yeah, he's a skinny little fucker, but Adam wasn't ready for that, and the quick gust of air pushed out of Adam's lungs gets turned a second too late into a breathless laugh. "I don't know," he says, and tugs on Tommy's hair like punctuation. "I guess I'm open to pretty much anything happening."

"Oh yeah," Tommy says, too loudly, and Adam makes frantic oh-my-god-shut-up faces at him. Hooking a few fingers into Adam's front pocket, not _really_ feeling sorry but content enough to play at it, Tommy settles down. Adam's been on the phone for more than ten minutes already. There's no way he's going to let a radio interview run over fifteen.

Adam eyeballs him warily and answers another couple questions, cracks a few jokes, resolutely doesn't let up on Tommy's hair for even a second, wielding it like a leash. Lethargy creeps back in, Adam's warmth and Adam's voice like a fucking lullaby sending Tommy to that weird, hazy place halfway between awake and asleep, crazy technicolor dreams slinking into the real world.

"Brat," Adam says, his hold gone soft, fingers stroking through Tommy's hair.

"Shoulda gone to y'own room," Tommy mumbles, stretching lazily, curling back up with his leg tucked firmly between Adam's.

After a long moment of silence, eons of it, Adam says, "This is my room," soft and hushed, careful.

"Not asleep," Tommy says, a total lie. He's dreaming right now that they're in an underwater hotel, there are fish swimming outside the windows bright blue and green and neon orange, and that they have exactly seventeen minutes to fly from Burbank to Dubai for a show Adam forgot he booked. It's really fucking messed up. One second he knows he's dreaming and the next he doesn't, and he slurs at Adam, "Gonna miss costume change."

"Right," Adam laughs. "Don't you worry about those feathers, Tommy Joe," he says, and Tommy grunts in surprise. How did Adam know? Monte hadn't told anybody else they'd left the new ostrich feathers for Adam's hat in Singapore, and that's why Tommy had gotten lost, left behind searching luggage bins so Adam wouldn't have to go on stage without them.

Adam leans over to grab the remote, jostling Tommy awake long enough for him to say, "Your room, shoulda kicked me out," and then he's out again, dreaming they're playing Rock Band on stage with Adam bitching his way through the lyrics to _Learn to Fly_.

*

"Alright!" Adam crows over the thudding bass, "go team, go!"

"Crazy fucker," Tommy says, and Sasha hollers, swinging off into the crowd with Terrance on her arm to scope out some crash space. Tommy grabs up a handful of Isaac’s shirt and makes a beeline for the bar. Ever since Singapore, Tommy's been in charge of drinks. He might not speak Mandarin, or German, or even English some days, but he sure as fuck speaks booze.

Isaac’s arm comes crashing down around Tommy's neck. "I love you, man," he says, squeezing tight, his mouth crushed to Tommy's ear. "I really fucking love you."

"Suck your own dick," Tommy says, grinning, and uses Isaac to plough through a knot of hip-grinders. One of the girls gives him the finger and a bright smile while the guy she's with slaps at Isaac’s ass. He misses by a whole fucking continent and ends up swatting Tommy's thigh instead, jostling him sideways. Tommy shouts, "Motherfucker!" into the din, and blows the guy a kiss, two kisses.

The bar is buried two deep in bodies, and for a second Tommy flashes back to LA. But it's different here. Smiles are open, genuine, not cat-eyed and hiding claws. Maybe that's the alcohol already buzzing through Tommy's veins talking, maybe it isn't. He is so fucking in love with Asia, Europe, fucking New Zealand and he hasn't even been there yet. Home is like a bad ex and he's on the best fucking rebound of his life. He slaps way too much cash onto the bar and watches the drinks fly his way.

"Whoa, shit," Isaac burbles into one of the drinks he's holding, neither one of them his. "Wow. Tommy J, ten o'clock. No, five, five o'clock, right the hell behind you, wow."

Ridiculous and awkward, Tommy shuffles back around, and okay, fuck yeah, _wow_. She's small and curvy, with thick dark hair falling all the way to the small of her back and this killer smile aimed right at him. He blinks, stupidly, and tosses off a small wave around the beer clutched in his hand. She shimmies her way through the crowd like a heatwave, suddenly right smack in front of him, one tiny hand curved into his belt to pull him out onto the floor.

Tommy's not big on dancing, not like Adam is. But shit, this isn't dancing, it isn't even the stripper moves Adam trots out night after night. This is fucking with his goddamn clothes still on. She moves sweet and slow, dragging him into it just how she wants. His mouth goes dry and his dick goes hard.

She leans in, says something he doesn't understand but sounds like an invitation. "I don't," he starts, and her smile flashes wider, brighter, like she knew he wouldn't be into it.

"Okay," she says, beautiful lilt to her voice even with the music pounding through his skull. "Next time. Okay?" and she kisses him full on the mouth, so hot his brain sizzles, nerves fry. His lips are still tingling when she slips off, sidling on up to one of her girlfriends, fuck, maybe a girl she doesn't know but she's going to hit on same as she hit on him.

He could follow her. Next time could be right the hell now. It's not like he meant to blow her off. But he stumbles back to the bar, signals one of the guys for the rest of the beers he paid for, gathers them up and heads off in a daze to find the troupe. They're clumped together on a wide black couch, minus Taylor and Adam, and Isaac whoops like a madman, pointing at his face. Tommy scrubs the back of one wrist across his mouth and it comes away glittering red. Dumping some beer out onto his fingers, Tommy scrubs harder at his face and flips Isaac off when the fucker laughs harder.

"Fuck!" Adam's voice explodes in Tommy's ear, all of two seconds before there's a solid, dance-hot body pressed all up against Tommy's back. "I hate beer," he says, snagging one out of Tommy's grip, "beer is so disgusting," as he's knocking it back, throat stretched long and glistening.

"So don't drink it!" Tommy makes a grab for the bottle, realising his mistake too late when the lunge leaves him open and unbalanced. A flurry of flailing arms and stumbling steps later he's out on the fucking dance floor again, clutching at a half-empty beer as if it's the thing holding him up instead of Adam plastered to his front, grinding down deep and low and dirty.

Tommy's life philosophy is pretty damn simple. He goes with it.

*

In Hawaii, Tommy wakes to warm darkness and the ocean dried saltily on his skin. He gropes for his phone and finds Adam's instead, poking at it until it gives up the time.

"Mngh," Adam complains at the bright glow.

"Sorry," Tommy whispers. It's late enough that he should go back to his own room, and early enough to make him want to stay where he is, flaked out on top of the covers with his jeans twisted weirdly around his hips. He heaves himself up with a grunt, rubbing at his eyes. His feet find bottles instead of carpet.

Adam flops a hand across the bed. "G'in," he slurs, sleep-heavy, not drunk. Tommy's the one who polished off that six pack. His head's still spinning. "S'early, baby."

"Yeah," Tommy says, too softly. He stands carefully and shucks his jeans, the socks he can't remember putting back on after plunging into the ocean, keeps his tee along with his briefs. Cotton whispers as Adam pulls back the sheets, and Tommy slides in, stretches out on his back as Adam tugs the blankets up. Adam's hand ends up resting heavily on his stomach beneath them, warm and wide, fingers almost spanning from hipbone to hipbone.

Adam drags in a deep breath like he's about to speak, and Tommy turns his head expectantly, stares hard at the dark shadows that are Adam's face. But no words follow the slow leak of warm air. After a few long seconds Tommy scoots a little closer, so Adam's breath kisses his cheek, and closes his eyes.

When Tommy wakes up, it's to Adam on the phone and the blissful scent of freshly brewed coffee. There are two mugs sitting beside the pot, one still overturned and the other with a tantalising curl of steam teasing the rim. He gropes across the mounds of blankets, stretching to the limit for Adam's coffee, his fingertips barely skimming the handle.

"Mine," Adam mouths, but nudges the mug into Tommy's reach with a knuckle anyway.

It takes more than a few scalding mouthfuls for Tommy to venture to the edge of the bed. He pokes the nearest beer bottle with his toe, contemplating it for a minute before heaving a sigh. It's his mess, he might as well clean it up.

Adam's still on the phone by the time the empties are stacked neatly on the bottom shelf of the room service cart, sipping at the coffee Tommy poured at the same time as a second cup for himself. It's good brew, but Tommy's mouth still mostly tastes like ass. A hairy one. Probably smells like one too. He roots around for his jeans, sitting on the edge of the bed to haul them on just in case gravity wants to conspire with the mild hangover he's working. The mattress heaves as Adam flops horizontally across it, miming endless _talk-talk-talk_ with one hand.

Standing up, Tommy gives the top of Adam's head a consoling pat. He's glad he's not the boss. Less shit for him to deal with. He points first at the bathroom, hikes a thumb over his shoulder, then makes the universally cheesy call-me sign as he heads for the door, coffee still clutched in one hand. The last thing he catches on his way out is Adam's thumbs-up peeking over the heap of blankets.

*

Cold crisp air burns Tommy's lungs after the club's smoky heat. The door clunks shut behind him but the thudding bass line stays echoed in his heartbeat, rattling his ribcage. He gropes for Adam's belt, finds it hidden beneath a shirt way too thin for fucking winter in Europe, grabs on and yanks. Ice and snow crunches thinly beneath heavy boots, and breath bursts out of Tommy's lungs when Adam stumble-falls against him, pinning him clumsily to the frozen brick wall, Adam's laugh ringing out clear through to the stars.

"Right the fuck now," Tommy says, cutting the glassy bright light in Adam's eyes to a glittering dark.

"Baby," Adam says, smile lopsided and quirking as he drags a fingertip down Tommy's cheek, the pad of his thumb over Tommy's lips, and sings in a lazy hush, "My baby walks so slow...."

"You're fucking wasted," Tommy slurs around Adam's thumb, grinning the whole time because fuck it, they're both wasted, high on life and some of the sweetest shit he's ever smoked. He fucking loves Europe. He wants to marry the whole god damn continent. "You should totally like, blow me."

Adam gets that look, the one like right before he decides to shove his tongue down Tommy's throat, and Tommy lets out a softer breath, tilts his face up and opens for it. His nerves buzz with a livewire thrill. Their mouths touch, but instead of Adam's tongue sliding into his, it's a smart-assed, "You think so, huh?"

"Fucker," Tommy grunts, teeth clacking down on empty air when Adam jerks back, laughing, just in time.

Adam's hand presses up between Tommy's legs, cups his cock and rocks slow and rhythmic, brings back the hazy weight of pot coiling through Tommy's blood. They've never gotten this far before, never edged past it to the bright-sharp moment where Tommy creams himself like a fucking teenager. And fuck, that sounds good, he's sure as hell not complaining, but he wants Adam's hands on him, skin to skin, slick and wet and perfect.

"C'mon, fuck," Tommy says, head tipped back against the freezing brick while he fights with the buttons on his jeans. "You gotta do it, Adam. Gotta, _c'mon_ ," and he loses the rest of it in a steaming rush of breath as Adam's fingers dig in at the small of his back, jerk him forward into the slow grind of Adam's cock against his hip.

"Tell me, baby," Adam says, rough as gravel, a fucking landslide, and Tommy lets out an honest-to-Jesus whine. This is not the time for words. This is the time for action, a whole fuckton of action, like Adam popping the button on Tommy's jeans just like that, fuck yes, sliding the zip down and getting one big hand inside to curl snug around Tommy's dick.

Tommy bites out, "Fuck," hips jerking, lungs struggling to pull in air. "Fuck," he says again, then, "Adam, _fuck_ ," and Adam noses in under his chin, tipping his head back to suck on his throat. Tommy swallows hard, shakily, his hair caught on the rough edges of brick.

"That's it, sweetheart, like that," Adam tells him, low and gorgeous, pure fucking sex. "Fuck my hand, show me what you want. I'd make it so fucking good for you, be so good."

Tommy sucks in a desperate lungful of air, but along with the cold rush comes Adam's fingers, hot and thick filling his mouth. His teeth scrape Adam's knuckles and he's sloppy as hell as he licks at them, but Adam moans, whispers dirty-sweet praises before getting a spit-slick hand back on his cock, jerking him rough and steady and pressing in tight to hold him up against the wall as his knees buckle. White starbursts eat away the black at the corners of his vision when he squeezes his eyes shut and comes, breathless and shaking, clutching at the back of Adam's shirt.

"Fuck, Tommy," Adam groans, and it's a blur when Adam shoves him back against the wall, grabs his wrist to shove his hand down the front of Adam's open jeans. He clumsily jerks Adam off, heart pounding, breath steaming the air, head spinning because that's Adam's dick in his hand, Adam's mouth crushed to his, and it's so stupidly, shockingly amazing when he makes Adam come that he thinks he's going to die.

*

Sometime the next day, sobriety rears its ugly head. The first thing Tommy thinks is, _Somebody should shoot me in the fucking face_.

The decision to march straight up to Adam's hotel room from Tommy's own takes seven seconds to make. On the way, he changes his mind approximately thirty-seven times, but his feet aren't listening. They plant him in front of Adam's door while his brain's still stuck in the elevator. He stands there like an idiot staring at the gilded numbers trying to remember what the hell he thinks he's doing. It's way too late to call this damage control. That makes it sound cheap, easy, when it sure as fucking hell isn't.

He knocks on the door, calls, "Adam? Hey, um, can I come in for sec?"

Nothing.

He tries again, louder. Still not response, but he catches the telltale creak of a body on the bed, footsteps on the floor. He's kind of pissed Adam's ignoring him, but he understands. They might've been drunk and high, but he's the one who pushed, fucking begged for Adam's hands. If this is fucked up between them, it's all on him.

"Listen, I get it, okay?" he says, leaning his forehead against the door to talk through it. "But you could've-" He stops, licks his lips. Yeah, maybe Adam could've said no, but what a fucking sleazy thing to say. Even thinking it makes him feel slimy. "If you think I'm gonna apologise for what happened, I'm not fucking gonna. I'm sorry if you're mad or whatever at me, but not for finally having the balls to ask for what the fuck I want, okay? Adam? Christ, tell me to fuck off or something, would ya?"

Not a peep from inside Adam's room this time around. Tommy sucks air in through clenched teeth and thumps the door with his fist. "Fine, whatever," he says, slumping against the door, sliding down with legs sprawled. "Stay in there and, like, sulk, I'm not fucking goin' anywhere until you get your head out of your ass."

More silence. Tommy grunts, then closes his eyes and settles in to wait. "What the fuck ever." He can out-stubborn anybody.

After the first ten minutes go by with no result, he fucks around on Twitter, watching the next half hour tick by through the timestamps on his feed. There's not much out there to keep up with. He could start some shit with a few well-placed RTs, kill time that way, but his heart's not in it. Trawling through his feed to find some conversation to jump in on sounds like too much work, anyway. Sleep hadn't really happened last night.

Then he starts losing time in snatches, a five-minute chunk gone here, another one there, until his ass is numb and cold and he's pretty sure the people manning the security cameras have placed bets on how long he's going to sit on the floor like a total moron. He flips off the blinking red dot above the door at the end of the hallway just as the elevator dings.

"And then I- Tommy?" Adam stops dead in the middle of the hallway. Lane stumbles half a step and he reaches out automatically to steady her, his gaze on the finger Tommy has aimed their way. A tiny crinkle forms between his eyebrows.

Tommy quickly drops his hand. "You're, uh, not in your room."

"No, I had an, um," Adam says, and pauses, scratches at the back of his neck. "Hey, Lane, could you just email it to me? The whole whatever."

"No problem," Lane says, already headed for the elevators. She jabs the call button twice in quick succession and skitters inside like a rat abandoning a sinking ship.

"What are you doing out here?" Adam asks the second the doors shut, exasperated and maybe, just maybe--if Tommy could squint with his ears--a scrap of _not_ royally pissed at him.

"I thought maybe you were, y'know, upset," Tommy says, waving lamely, as if that helped define the entire concept, or even the whole situation. "About last night."

Adam frowns, dragging Tommy's stomach down with the curve of his mouth. "Why would I, no, wait. Wrong question." He scuffs a hand through his hair. "You totally forgot I gave you a keycard, didn't you?"

Stupidly, Tommy echoes, "You gave me a keycard?" and starts patting at his pockets, not even sure if these are the jeans he was wearing last night or not.

"Oh my god," Adam says, and this time for sure there's affection in there. He crouches down beside the door and goes for Tommy's back pocket, coming up with a keycard held between two fingers.

"Wow." Carefully, Tommy takes the card from Adam's hold. "It's a fucking good thing I'm pretty."

"Gorgeous," Adam says, and straightens up, one hand held out to pull Tommy to his feet and holding on as Tommy keys open the room. "So, are you coming in, or are you that attached to the décor out here?"

"Yeah, um," Tommy says, firmly closing the door behind them as the world beneath his feet resettles on a slightly different kilter than it had before. He looks at the keycard, at Adam's bed, at Adam. Huh. "When were you gonna tell me we're like, together?"

Very deliberately, Adam tucks the keycard back into Tommy's jeans. "I knew you'd figure it out on your own eventually."


End file.
